It had become percolated. I've put him a patch on that cost me thirty
centimes, and I've resewn the edge with braid, and all the lot.
They're expensive, them jobs. Well, when I open my mouth to talk about
that matter of his sewing-machine that I'm interested in and that he
can't use himself, he becomes congealed."

He recounts to me the mad claims of Trompson in the matter of his new
soles, and the conduct of Monsieur Becret, who, though old enough to
know better, had taken advantage of his good faith by paying for the
repair of his spout with a knife "that would cut anything it sees." He
goes on to detail for my benefit all the important matters in his life.
Then he says, "I'm not rich, I'm not, but I'm consentious. If I'm a
botcher, it's 'cos my father and my grandfather were botchers before
me. There's some that's for making a big stir in the world, there are.
I don't hold with that idea. What I does, I does."

Suddenly a sonorous tramp persists and repeats itself in the roadway,
and a shape of uncertain equilibrium emerges and advances towards us by
fits and starts; a shape that clings to itself and is impelled by a
force stronger than itself. It is Brisbille, the blacksmith, drunk, as
usual.

Espying us, Brisbille utters exclamations. When he has reached us he
hesitates, and then, smitten by a sudden idea, he comes to a
standstill, his boots clanking on the stones, as if he were a cart. He
measures the height of the curb with his eye, but clenches his fists,
swallows what he wanted to say, and goes off reeling, with an odor of
hatred and wine, and his face slashed with red patches.

"That anarchist!" said Crillon, in disgust; "loathsome notions, now,